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“Yes, and I’m with my car, but my wheels are apparently someplace else.”
There was a moment of silence, and I knew he was smiling. Ranger finds me amusing.
“I’m with Lula and Randy Briggs,” I said. “And I could use a ride to my parents’ house so I can get Big Blue.”
“I’m in the middle of something, but I can send Hal. He’s in the neighborhood.”
“Is Gardi back in Miami?”
“He’s got a nine o’clock flight tonight.”
FIVE
BIG BLUE IS a 1953 powder blue and white Buick Roadmaster that’s been retrofitted with seat belts and power brakes. It gets three miles to the gallon, and it does nothing for my self-esteem, as I aspire to be a slick Porsche person. My budget sees me more as a broken-down-junker-car person. My Great Uncle Sandor bequeathed the Buick to my Grandma Mazur, and it now lives in my parents’ garage in anticipation of automotive emergencies. Unfortunately, I have these on a regular basis.
Ranger’s guy met us on Stark, removed my plates from the Explorer carcass, and drove us to the Burg. I got the car keys from Grandma and backed the Buick out of the garage. Lula and Briggs got in, and we drove to North Trenton to scope out Poletti’s rental properties.
“It’s the white house coming up on the right,” Briggs said. “Personally, I can’t see him in any of these rentals. They’re leased through a management company. Strictly investment deals. I’m not sure he even knows he has them.”
“No stone unturned,” I said. “We’ll just do a drive-by unless we see the Mustang or some other sign of Poletti.”
An hour later I dropped Lula off at the office and returned to my apartment.
Briggs followed me in and pulled the wig off his head. “I’m hungry. What’s for dinner?”
“I was going to have a peanut butter sandwich.”
“That’s not dinner. That’s lunch if you’re seven years old.”
“What did you have in mind?”
“Steak.”
“Are you buying?”
“My money and my credit cards got blown up.”
“Then I guess you’re not having steak.”
Briggs looked in my fridge. “There’s nothing in here.”
“Not true. I have olives. I put them on my peanut butter sandwich.”
“That’s sick.”
I pulled a box of Froot Loops out of the overhead cabinet. “How about cereal?”
“You don’t have any milk.”
“And?”
“You’re supposed to have cereal with milk.”
“These are Froot Loops. They’re perfect right out of the box. They’re pretty, they don’t stick to your fingers, and the box says they’re filled with vitamins and minerals.”
“Maybe I should rethink this. I’d get better food in prison.”
I made myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich and ate it while I leaned against the kitchen counter.
